Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(35)

“Nooo,” I say softly, moving slowly closer to her on the sofa, the way you’d approach a feral cat. “He doesn’t think that. He thinks you’re the kind of woman who sees something wrong and tries to fix it.”

She takes a shuddery breath. “Henry can’t die. I won’t let him.” A fat tear squeezes out of one of her eyes. “Fuck. I never cry. Never. Nobody wants an agent who cries.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I whisper. I lift Bess and deposit her onto my lap. “You’ve had a shock. And everyone wants an agent who cares.” I tuck her against my chest. She smells like lemons.

She hides her face in my neck and cries, her back shaking.

“Shh,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for Henry. I don’t want to lose him, either.” Hell, my eyes feel hot, too. I’ve been with Henry for nine years. And I know what Bess means about feeling selfish. Because my next thought is: can’t one thing in my life stay intact? Not even one?

I push that thought out of my mind. I kiss a tear off the corner of Bess’s eye. And then I cuddle my future agent a little closer. I stroke her hair and wait. It takes her a while to stop crying, but eventually she relaxes against my body and sighs. The sun is shining brightly outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, splitting into a million diamonds of light on the river.

Strangely, I feel centered in a way that I haven’t for weeks. Like a stone that’s anchored in the river, while life rushes loudly by. I thought that rediscovering sex was Bess’s big gift to me. And it was a pretty amazing gift. But this—providing comfort—is something else I once did well, too. I’d forgotten how this feels—holding someone you love in silence, just because they need it.

It’s funny how I’ve missed this quiet pleasure. By the time we’d separated, it had been a long time since my ex and I had provided comfort to one another.

Bess takes another deep, slow breath, and her body’s warmth slows down my heart rate. I can’t resist stroking a hand down her back. I hold very still, hoping she won’t get up and leave too soon.

I’m not ready.





Fifteen





What the Girl Wants





Bess





Tank, at some point, picks me up and carries me a short distance to the bed. He lies down and pulls me close again, pressing a warm hand against the small of my back.

Rolling closer, I cling a little more tightly to him. Is it horrible that Tank is the one I wanted to see right after I spoke to Henry? A week ago I would have locked myself into my bathroom and sobbed alone.

But here I am, pressing my face against Tank’s sturdy shoulder, blotting my tears onto his T-shirt. I’m thirty years old and I’ve never been in a serious relationship with a man—the kind where you can turn to him when you’re sad.

Tank and I aren’t in a relationship, either. But now I know what that would feel like—strong arms and patient silence. I feel like I’ve been holding myself together for thirty years, and just for fifteen minutes I’m letting someone else do the holding.

I like it way too much.

Tank dozes off eventually, his arm still curled protectively around me. He has a game tonight, and most players nap before hitting the rink. I feel like a stowaway—catching a free ride on the warmth of his body and the comfort of his touch.

Sleep doesn’t come for me. It feels wrong to slip away from this moment, with the sunshine on the river and the quiet rhythm of Tank’s breathing. I wonder if Henry feels like this when he looks out the penthouse window—like the afternoon sunshine is a commodity that’s suddenly in short supply.

For me, Tank’s embrace is that precious resource. It’s not mine. I’m just borrowing it for an hour. Then I’ll have to give it back and go on with my life.

Eventually, Tank stirs. I can tell when he wakes, because his breathing becomes quieter. He rolls toward me, kissing me gently on the temple. I reach up and stroke his jaw with my thumb. I don’t want to talk right now, because only sad things will come out. So I lean in and kiss his neck instead. He smells like shower soap and clean T-shirts.

Tank presses another kiss to the side of my face. Then he ducks his head and trails his lips up my neck. We’re still curled around one another, as if letting go would hurt.

So we don’t. He clasps my face and pulls me into a kiss. A soft one. His green eyes lock onto mine, and then I wrap my arms around him and kiss him back. My body melts against his like a cat reclining in the sun.

For once, our kisses are slow and quiet. He savors my mouth until the taste of him is the only thing I know. Every languorous kiss is like another dose of a drug, softening the edges of my consciousness. I wish we could stay right here forever, where nothing is wrong and nobody is dying.

Because we’re us, we don’t stop at kissing. Tank’s hands wander down my tummy. His fingers unzip my trousers. Then I kiss my way down his body, pushing his T-shirt out of the way and nibbling the skin just above the waistband of his athletic shorts.

I want to be used right now, I realize. I need to be selfless, because it feels wrong to be so healthy and alive.

Tank takes the hint, shoving his shorts down, taking his briefs with them. Not missing a beat, I bend right down and lick the length of his cock. He hisses, so I slip his tip between my lips and take his cockhead into my mouth.